


Promise

by FreedomColouredBlue



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Blow Jobs, Bottom Hank, Daddy Kink, Dom connor, Dom/sub, Fluff, Human AU, Light Bondage, M/M, Munch AU, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sub Hank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 03:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18886126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreedomColouredBlue/pseuds/FreedomColouredBlue
Summary: After meeting at a munch, Lieutenant Hank Anderson and Detective Connor Stern decide to meet for a session of light bondage.





	Promise

After a hailstorm of texts (Connor doesn't stop _talking_ and Hank cannot help but _ask_ ), they decide to meet. Or rather, Hank cannot wait anymore. He feels something stirring, under the surface, swimming circles around his stomach. There is desire long suppressed, thoughts he can't keep under the ash anymore. Connor is so kind, so tender and encouraging and true, and Hank can't help it. He's falling, if not in love, then straight into the arms of the man he has always wanted to be, but never had the courage to try and approach. Not even in his most torrid dreams.

 

They meet in a hotel downtown. Far enough from both their respective stations that the risk of bumping into one of their colleagues, even just in passing, is extremely low. A detective and a police lieutenant, so far apart in rank and age that anything between them should be not only improbable, but formal and wrapped up in protocol at best. Then again, the world is a vast, complicated place, and people cannot be confined by a piece of shining, authoritative metal attached to their belts.

 

Plus, if Hank had to choose, he would much rather to be wrapped up in something more comfortable and less evanescent than rank.

 

But he digresses.

 

The room is like any other hotel room: bland, impersonal colors, white sheets steamed one too many times and slightly stiff duvets. The chair in the corner looks almost famished, the padding flattened by anonymous and innumerable bodies and bags, and the window isn't worth looking out of, at the risk of being looked at in return.

 

As if reading his mind, Connor crosses to the window and shuts the curtains in an almost protective gesture, and that's enough for Hank to release a small breath he didn't know he was holding.

 

This is it.

 

The moment he'd been waiting for since he was sixteen and he tried to tie himself up to the bedpost in his room, before his mother walked in on him and he was forced to concoct an elaborate story about a talent show at his school and him wanting to be the next Houdini.

 

She never quite actually believed him, he just knows that. Still, she didn't argue, and after that she started knocking before barging into his room.

 

He can feel the warmth of Connor's hand seeping through the dusty layer of his thoughts, and he flinches, startled.

 

“You're a million miles away,” Connor smiles, gentle amusement flickering in his eyes, lighting up the room, or maybe just Hank's mood. “Are you okay?”

 

Hank doesn't really know, to be honest. He came here for one purpose and one alone: to be tied, to find release, to transmute his fantasies into reality. And yet, that same purpose keeps eluding him, because every time he looks at Connor, he feels his entire rib cage shift by the smallest inches, magnetized by something invisible hidden inside the other man's smile.

 

He sighs and places one imperceptibly trembling hand on top of Connor's, counting the bones he finds under his palm. “I don't know...” he murmurs, the crease between his eyebrows a canyon of dread. Then, impatient: “Should we get on with it?”

 

Connor's fingers presses ever so slightly into Hank's skin, grounding rather than forceful. “We've got all the time in the world,” he murmurs, thumb navigating a sea of beard. “You're safe here. You know that, right?”

 

And _that_ , all of that, is true. Hank knows... no, he feels it. They've both taken the whole day off of their own volition, they have discussed everything, every single little detail, via text, and no matter how little time has passed since they happened to sit in front of one another at that munch, there's a level of trust between them Hank hasn't allowed anyone to share with him. Ever. Not even his ex-wife.

 

They know each other on a level that not many allow themselves to even consider; they are perfectly aware of one another's needs, desires, and deepest fantasies. Their relationship is the brief glance of silent kinship you share with a stranger wearing your favorite band's t-shirt, the mutual understanding that, beyond the facade, there's something that could bring you both together. Perhaps even help you form a friendship that could last forever.

 

But now, gazing into Connor's sweet, brown eyes, nervousness and excitement buzzing around the pit of his stomach, Hank doesn't feel so safe anymore. Not because of Connor (he could tackle the boy without even breaking a sweat, that's for sure) but because of himself. Of what he's allowing himself to do. To feel.

 

“Let's take this slow, okay?” Connor continues. Wonderful, amazing Connor, who uses too many emojis and he's a grammar enthusiast even worse than Hank. “And if you ever feel uncomfortable...”  
  
“I know,” Hank cuts him off before he can finish that sentence, raising one hand between as to stop any further comment. He has to let go of Connor's hand, though, and he feels colder all of a sudden.

 

He doesn't want to think about the chance of this going south. This... this session, date or whatever it is, it's too important (potentially too perfect) for Hank to ruin it with nerves. He sits on the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress tightly enough that the sheets wrinkle under his fisted fingers. Connor doesn't comment, although he surely noticed. Hank's grateful for that. He couldn't bear his weakness to be exposed at every single turn, even before they start.

 

Apparently the man was put on this green Earth to turn Hank's world upside down in every single possible way, because the first thing Connor does, instead of ordering him to strip or to start talking about ropes and safewords, is kiss Hank. On the forehead, a smile crisscrossing with his incredulous frown. “I'm glad we're here,” he murmurs, and Hank really, really hopes to God he can't taste the anxiousness salting his skin. “I really wanted to do this for so long...”

 

“Then, get on with...” He trails off the moment Connor's thumbs start stroking gentle circles around the back of his wrists, where the flesh is softer and the hair becomes sparse. He instantly feels a current of calm wash through him, influencing him, as if Hank was the tide and Connor the moon. He sighs, deep and troubled and aware, and closes his eyes.

 

He's safe with Connor.

 

He knows this.

 

But now, he _feels_ it too.

 

“Get undressed,” Connor encourages him, a pinch of his domineering nature peppering the words. “Please.”

 

Hank does as he's told, because it's far easier to follow orders than think. That's what first attracted him to the BDSM scene, to the thought of being bound and helpless in the hands of another... The absence of thought. The calm inside the eye of the tornado. He just wants to stop thinking, spiraling, crashing and burning under a burden too suffocating, too pulverizing to bear...

 

Maybe that's also why he became a cop. Because taking orders was easier, because having someone else to tell him right from wrong was kind of atonement for all the times he thought he knew better. But he doesn't want to think about that, not right now, when he's standing up to remove his clothes and his shirt's falling off his shoulders, unsheathing a body he's not entirely sure he feels comfortable in yet.

 

Connor touches his flesh, not to mold, but to cherish, and that's... miraculous, in a way. More than Hank expected, certainly more than he deserves. He feels Connor's fingers (so young, callouses not as noticeable nor hardened as Hank's) wrapped around the sides of his shoulders, fat and muscles going tense under the touch, only to relax the moment Connor's lips press against the curve of Hank's neck. There's something excruciatingly intimate about the breath of another so close to yours, hidden inside your throat, not ready to be released yet, and Hank closes his eyes, tilting his head to the side to _feel._ Connor isn't kissing him, not really... he's just _making himself known,_ knocking at the door of Hank's existence in the sweetest, most heartbreaking way possible, and Hank feels his walls crumbling down, grain after grain of ancient concrete.

 

Connor wraps his arms around Hank's middle, fingers intertwined above his navel, and he... doesn't seem disgusted by Hank's stomach, how round and barreled it is, how hairy and unkempt and, all in all, not attractive in the slightest.

 

“Mmmh,” Connor rumbles on Hank's skin. Kisses his shoulder. “You're exquisite, lieutenant.”

 

And that voice, so soft and clear and enthralled, Hank can almost believe. He lets out a quick breath, frail and quivering inside his throat, and he reaches for his belt slowly, almost drowsily. The contours of the room get progressively blurrier, clouded by dawning reassurance, and Hank benevolently bids reality farewell.

 

He doesn't need it. Not right now. Not with Connor.

 

“Just...” Now, this is a kiss. Small. Tender. Barely there. Featherlight and yet so heavy. Connor guides him to the bed, jeans forgotten yet still on, allows him all the time to get comfortable on alien sheets, and Hank doesn't even need to open his eyes but for a few times... He feels so warm and soft and pliant under Connor's touch, he almost forgets that there are supposed to be rules to this thing, established roles, stern voices, harsh commands... “Perfect.”

 

And oh, how reverent Connor sounds. Hank smiles, a soft spreading of lips between curtains of beard, and he presses his head back on the pillow. “I love your chest hair...” Connor murmurs, the hot presence of his lips hovering over Hank's chest. “They're like twirls of smoke...”  
  


And Hank should feel a pang of... something. Shame? Rejection? Smoke is gray, ephemeral, the remnant of an irreversible chemical process rising from burning ashes, and Hank really doesn't need a reminder of how old he is, how close to death...

 

Connor presses a crown of slow, languid kisses around the tattoo on Hank's chest, and the man can almost feel the ink sprouting to new, defined life under his skin.

 

God.

 

God, is it supposed to feel this good?

 

“Arms up, love,” Connor chuckles, clearly aware of the expression of pure bliss on Hank's face. “Time for the rope...”

 

Hank obeys. It shouldn't sound so ominous, but it does. Not the rope part, Hank has been waiting so long for that...

 

It's the 'love' that concerns him.

 

All the doms he's seen in porn and read about in those saucy novels he absolutely does not read (really) are nothing like Connor's been so far. The man is kind, gentle, yet there is something in his demeanor, the way he walks, talks or even smiles that exudes command. Even the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles are somewhat authoritative in their soft mildness.

 

Hank had always imagined that a real dom would have called him names, something sharp and humiliating and harsh, like 'slut' or 'whore', or maybe some condescending and deceptively sweet diminutive like 'pet' or 'boy'. But Connor... Connor simply doesn't. He ties the ropes around Hank's wrists as if his bones were delicate, green stems, all the while watering and nurturing his hazy consciousness with a rainfall of “You alright? Too loose? Too tight? Tell me if it hurts, love...”

 

And again, with the love. Love, love, love. They've been to one munch together, they've exchanged hundreds and hundreds of texts, and yet Connor wields that word like they've known each other for years...

 

Which could very well be true, judging by how easily, how expertly the boy manhandles his body. He knows Hank doesn't like to have his legs tied up (because Connor listens, and Hank wants to be able to wrap them around his dom's body in the throes of ecstasy), he knows exactly how tight he needs to knot those silk ropes (because he's attentive and smart and this is not his first rodeo. No matter how harshly Hank tries to deny it, the thought of Connor domming someone else cuts deep inside his gut, an edge of jealousy he refuses to analyze further, lest he get someplace he's not ready for yet), he knows that Hank loves, _craves_ to be kissed, because Connor can read his body language like a savant, and Hank wants, no, _needs him to._ He wants someone to crack the code, to discover his deepest, most encrypted secrets and set him free from the burden of pre-programmed normalcy.

 

“There we are...” Connor kisses his cheekbone. A small bubble bursts inside Hank's aorta. “There we are. All safe and secure, love.”

 

Hank tests the ropes, and yes.

 

_Yes_

 

They are exactly right. Just what he needed. What he'd been needing all this time...

 

Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes and Hank has to puff his chest, to show off a boastfulness he doesn't feel, a virile mastery over his body, thin as autumn ice. He can't cry, he can't...

 

Be happy about this.

 

“Shh...” Connor kisses his right eyelid, then the left, a god bestowing prophetic visions of bliss upon his favorite priest. “It's okay... it's alright. You're safe here, love... you're free...”

 

Free.

 

Tied up enough to be free. Cherished and safe enough to risk it all in the arms of another.

 

Hank loves this.

 

Loves it so much it hurts.

 

Loves...

 

“You're so perfect, love,” Connor murmurs a path of praises all along Hank's neck, down, down, through the center of his sternum. “So brave and kind and wonderful...” He traces the arch of two ribs, tries to bring new life to a scar through thorough kissing. “And you're all mine...” Connor smiles right above his navel, and Hank quivers, the words seeping through him like nourishment long forgotten. “Mine to love and cherish and care for... mine to please...”

 

Slowly, luxuriously, Hank moves his limbs aimlessly over the bed cover, a lazy smile curling on his lips like ink on water. The ropes are sturdy yet soft, tight yet forgiving, and they anchor him oh so tenderly to moment after moment of absolute bliss. He sighs, content, so lost in pleasure he doesn't even notice the clink of his buckle, the soft rustle of fabric when Connor opens his jeans and takes out his half-erect cock. He opens his eyes only slightly to see Connor licking his lips, pink tongue tracing his parched skin while his brown eyes stare at Hank's cock with a glimmer of hunger in them. Connor looks up at him, smiles, and with the lowest, roughest voice Hank has ever heard from him, he vibrates over Hank's tip “Mine to taste...” before he dips his head down and takes Hank into the all-encompassing cavern of his mouth.

 

Hanks throws his head back, and with a moan he lets himself be had.

 

The suction around his cock is enough to have Hank thrashing on the bed. He can't remember anything outside this bliss, this scalding pleasure, the moist walls of Connor's cheek wrapped around his throbbing erection. He cannot move his arms, he cannot escape, and that's...

 

Exactly what he needed. Now, he can't escape the abandon. The passion. The all-consuming love crashing down the walls inside his veins, dissolving the last vestiges of his shame.

 

Like a newborn soul, he's raw. He's new. He's free. Free to moan, to shout, to breath and squirm and feel so _small._ Small enough to be held and coddles and hidden from a world too vast, too cruel, too hard...

 

Connor moans around his pulsating flesh, tearing a “Connor!” out of Hank's spasmodic throat. “Mmmh,” he hums, pulling down Hank's jeans and boxers. “Delicious.”

 

And Hank cannot even look. If he does, the world will come back to him, and he doesn't want that. Not yet, not yet...

 

Still, when he feels a puff of warm air against his balls, the tip of Connor's nose brushing against his taint, he can almost see the man reaching down, down, clever fingers separating Hank's arsecheeks, playing with the coarse hair there, until Connor hums in delighted approval at the treasure hidden there.

 

The pressure of Connor's right hand disappears, and Hank cracks his eyes open, only to be welcomed by a mop of brown curls. He curses under his breath, when Connor fingers return to him wet and cold with lube. Hank arches his back, pulling at the ropes to find some steadiness, and when his eyes meet Connor's, the flames hidden there spark an inferno of lust. Connor smirks, massages one thumb around Hank's wrinkled, hairy entrance.

 

“Lay down, love...” he murmurs, and the command is unmistakable, despite the wink that follows. “Let daddy take care of you...”

  
Daddy.

 

_Daddy._

 

Jesus Christ, Hank is having an aneurysm.

 

He lays down with a barely contained groan, back arching on the mattress to better feel the ropes. “Jesus, kid...”

 

“Ah-ah,” Connor admonishes him. His thumb stops, and Hank feels very, very cold. “Who am I?”  
  
Oh God.

 

Oh Jesus.

 

Oh fuck.

 

Hank bites his lips, refusing to let out the word. Something inside him tells him that the moment he does, everything will change. He'll be past the point of no return, and everything he's so meticulously in all these years of trying to be the perfect man, husband and cop will be lost forever, impossible to regain or rebuilt.

 

Connor doesn't pressure him. He's patient, is Connor. So warm and kind and tender. Everything Hank could've ever asked for, everything he _wants_...

 

And in the silence following his words, Hank finds himself wondering _Would it really be so bad?_

 

_To_ _lose_ _everything?_

 

_To throw away his past, to build a future that is only his to live?_

 

He tilts his head forward, strands of hair framing his flaming cheeks, eyes gleaming, and with a strained, desperate breath, he murmurs: “Daddy...”

 

Connor smiles, incandescent. “I can't hear you, love...”

 

“Daddy,” Hank pulls at the ropes, wrapping cracked lips around the words to better convince himself that yes, he's really speaking them and yes, this is real. This is the moment everything stops, only to start again. Better. Clearer. His own way. “Daddy, please...”

 

“Good...” Connor presses his lips to Hank's inner thigh and suckles at the tensed muscles. “Good, love... Daddy's so proud of you...”

 

Before Hank can even begin to bask in the praise, Connor dips his head down, and with the tip of his tongue, he starts penetrating Hank's entrance like he's starved for it.

 

Hank throws his head back and _roars._

 

The first ring of lubed muscle is a door to a pleasure far deeper and more intense than Hank could have ever even imagined. Fingers stretch him, careful and searching, while Connor's tongue explores the innermost part of Hank's body, a presence so hot and wet and wonderful Hank almost bursts in pleasure the very moment it enters him. Unrelenting, Connor curls a finger over that gland that makes fireworks pop deep down inside Hank's belly and makes the lieutenant squirm and shout in utter bliss. Hank wraps his strong, thick legs around Connor's head, desperate to get him closer, closer, deeper...

 

“Daddy!” he yells, vocal cords vibrating like crazy and lungs about to collapse on themselves. “Daddy, please!”

 

Connor smiles, face trapped between Hank's cheeks, and wraps one hand around his lover’s dick. He starts pumping, relentless and tight and “Come for me, love...” he marks in fire against Hank's entrance. “Come for daddy...”

 

And he does.

 

He does, because what else can he do?

 

Orgasm crashes over him like a planet he didn't know he was shouldering, and Hank comes, comes, comes for eons, comes forever, silk ropes the only thing keeping his body together on a molecular level. He shouts, thrashes wildly on the bed, and the pleasure is enough to mold Hank into something else in a blinding, quivering Big Bang.

 

He comes in stripes of pearlescent joy all over his stomach, and all the while Connor's there to lick him, tease him, hold him so tight and never let him go.

 

For the first time in a long, long time, Hank's happy.

 

New.

 

Alive.  
  
He can let go.

 

He can...

 

 

 

He comes back to consciousness after an eternity of afterglow, warm hands massaging aloe vera on his wrists. The ropes are gone (pity) and Connor still holds on to him with his free hand, using his index finger to write sweet, nonsensical words into Hank's flank, between his ribs. Connor's lips are pressed against Hank's forehead, as they should be, and the lieutenant smiles, safe and satisfied. He wraps one arm around Connor's still fully clothed body, and burrows his sweaty head into the man's chest, inhaling the scent of eucalyptus, warm skin, sex and Connor.

 

“Hey there, love.” Connor kisses his wrists, just above the red line wet with cream, and smiles. “You okay?”

 

Hank smiles back, and although Connor cannot see him, he hopes he can sense his lips through fabric, skin and muscle. “Never better, daddy.”

 

Connor chuckles, his body curling around Hank's head as to protect him, shield him from a world that doesn't need him. Not like Connor does. “You can drop the nicknames now, you know?”

 

Hank frowns, naked limbs buzzing in post-orgasmic delight. “Why should I?”

 

“Fair point,” Connor murmurs to the crown of Hank's head. “Rest a while, love. We've got all the time in the world.”

 

Hank tilts his head up, looking at Connor with eyes alight with tentative hope. “Promise?”

 

Connor's eyes are the never ending promise infinite tomorrows. “Promise.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank everybody on Twitter who encouraged me to write and post this fic. And most of all I want to thank my friend Sam and Noys for reading this thing and being so kind and supportive of me. <3


End file.
